


18 And Life

by Duckyboos



Series: Fucking With Fire [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Prison, BAMF Castiel, Bottom Castiel, Dirty Talk, M/M, Older Castiel, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Castiel, Prison Sex, Rough Sex, Russian Mafia, Top Dean, Younger Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has just been tossed into jail for doing something dumb. Which is pretty much his M.O. but this time, his actions have real consequences.<br/>Castiel Krushnic is his new cellmate with his own agenda that Dean isn't really privy to until it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	18 And Life

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for the lovely [ coffindoors ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coffindoors/pseuds/coffindoors/) who wanted a prison AU where Dean is a newbie and Cas is a prison shutcall, age difference (Dean 18-20; Cas 36), but Cas _really_ likes the idea of getting fucked by Dean.  
>  Both BAMFs ofc.
> 
> I hope this is what you wanted! It was supposed to be a quickie (hur hur), but ended up being a bit longer than I'd planned and only faintly ridiculous compared to my normal stuff.

“Krushnic, you caught yourself a fish!”

The gate clanks open and Dean shuffles forward, the shackles around his ankles conspiring with the bow of his legs to make it more of a challenge than it should be. Stripped of all his worldly possessions, the only thing Dean has in his arms is a single toilet roll placed on top of a neatly folded set of orange prison scrubs, identical to the ones he’s wearing.

A CO removes his cuffs and then he’s shoved into the eight by ten cell.

He wishes he could say that the car he stole had even been worth it, but as with most things in Dean’s life, it just didn’t live up to expectation.

“Hello,” a voice rumbles, low and deep.

Dean’s insides clench. He’s well-aware that he’s likely be traded like a damn commodity in jail if he doesn’t assert his dominance, and even then it’s touch-and-go whether the other cons will see him as a challenge or be smart enough to leave him alone. He can only pray that the guy he’s been unceremoniously thrust upon and is expected to live with for the next eighteen months is at least the kind who doesn’t see him that way.

He can hold his own in a fight; it's not coming out on the losing side that he's worried about. It's getting into fights that may end up extending his stay here, because that _cannot_ happen.

“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.” His cellmate drops down from his perch on the top bunk and Dean is at once rendered speechless by deep blue eyes, plush pink lips and messy dark hair. If Dean’s pretty, then this guy is _beautiful_. “I’m Castiel.”

“Err, Dean.”

“Hello Dean,” his smile is comforting rather than predatory and Dean finds himself relaxing a little, “if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you? You look like you should be in a young offenders instead of this hell-hole.”

Dean gets it. Although he’s eighteen, his pretty face hasn’t given way to manly ruggedness yet and he still has a little bit of puppy fat. It’s an endless source of amusement for his younger brother, who is as thin as a rake and just at the beginning of a growth spurt that may end up seeing him taller than Dean.

“I’m eighteen,” he says, and adds quickly, maybe a little defensively, “but I’m not a stupid kid.”

Castiel nods, his blue eyes calm and considering and Dean gets the distinct impression that he’s being sized up, but for what, he isn’t quite sure.

 

***

 

His first week in Eastern State passes quickly; largely uneventful, but Dean can't figure out why. He’s seen the movies, he’s watched Prison Break. Pretty boys never last very long without at least an _attempt_ on their virtue.

He’s heard things whispered under his breath as he passes, but nobody deigns to say anything to his face. More than once, someone makes an aborted movement towards him, and then backs away with a far-off look in their eyes, evidently thinking better of it.

Even the guards leave him alone; showing him something akin to respect as and when they escort him around the prison.

He’s not stupid, and he’s not naïve; he knows something is up.

It’s only when he’s on his way back from shop via one of the many narrow corridors that he’s abruptly confronted with the answer and he’s not entirely sure how to feel about it. Partly impressed and maybe a little turned on, but mostly freaked the fuck out.

Castiel has some con – Alastair something, Dean thinks – pressed against the wall, delicate fingers wrapped around the guy’s throat.

“You will not touch Dean Winchester.” His tone brooks no argument; cold and as concrete as the wall under Alistair’s back, but the dumb prick wriggling in a deceivingly strong-looking chokehold decides to make a potentially suicidal attempt at it anyway.

“C’mon Krushnic,” he pleads, face beet red, voice strained, “it’s just some dumbass kid, why do you care so much?”

“It is not for you to question my motives,” Castiel replies, looking less than impressed, and Dean gets the distinct feeling that this isn’t the first time the two of them have had this conversation. Castiel leans in closer, face inches away from Alastair, menacing and eyes dark as Hell, “back the fuck off. Or we will have a problem. Understand?”

Dean has never seen anything other than the calm, apathetic Castiel; the one who people seem to instinctively fear, though Dean’s never been privy to any conversations as to _why_. This Castiel however… well Dean’s dick seems to be speaking on his own behalf; he’s as hard as he’s ever been, teen hormones coalescing with the ridiculous hyper-masculine display in front of him, making it damn near impossible to be anything else.

The man stutters out his acquiescence, “y-yes, Castiel.”

“Good,” Castiel releases Alastair, allowing him to slide a little down the wall, coughing, “I’m glad we understand each other.” And then, for good measure he throws a fist into the other man’s stomach.

 

***

Castiel is stretched out in his bunk reading when Dean finally gets back to their cell – his talk with the warden about his lack of visitors having gone as well as expected – but he looks up when the guard calls out for the cell door to be opened, folding over the corner of a page to bookmark it and tucking the book under his pillow.

The door closes and the guard wanders off, whistling as he goes.

“Are you okay?” Castiel’s demeanor is only slightly less stoic than usual; passivity giving way to something a trace more human.

At Dean’s mute nod, something akin to relief flickers across his face, before he’s back to default. “Good. I was –“ he stops himself, waits a second, gathering his thoughts, “listen to me,” his tone is all business, none of the barely-there emotion of a few moments ago, “you’re going to have to do something you may not be comfortable with if you want to survive in here.”

“What?” Dean braces himself against the line he knows is coming next; the prison stereotype of being his cellie’s bitch, getting fucked every night to keep his protection from everyone else. The apparent lesser of two evils.

On the bright side – which isn’t all that bright; more of a murky horrific orange color – there are worse guys he could be getting drilled in the ass by. At least Castiel is attractive and a seemingly okay dude.

_And intimidating as fuck. Don’t forget intimidating as fuck._

“You’re gonna have to fuck me.”

_Wait, what?_

“Um, what?”

“They won’t leave you alone, and I can’t keep an eye on your every hour of every day. If you fuck me, it’ll automatically put you at the top of the food chain in here.”

Dean’s upstairs brain hasn’t quite caught up yet, so it takes a beat of silence fraught with an impressive amount of tension before he manages to stutter out a reply, “w-why?” he clears his throat and tries again, “why are you doing this for me?”

“Just because.” Castiel replies ever-so-helpfully, “now, are you gonna fuck me or not?”

If his dick wasn’t already half-hard before, then it definitely would be now. Those words, coming from those lips, spoken in that voice?

Holy fuck.

What kind of moron would he have to be to say no to something like that?

 

***

 

Luckily, there’s only half an hour between their conversation and lights out when the guards do their final checks before leaving the cell block in peace for the night.

However, it may actually be the longest half an hour of Dean’s entire life. Firstly, because he’s so hard that it hurts and secondly, because he can clearly hear Castiel from his position on the top bunk; the slick sounds and quiet moans of someone who has absolutely every intention of following through with getting fucked by his cell mate who is literally half his age.

The second situation really does nothing to aid the first one.

Within seconds of the guard calling out a gruff, ”Lights out!” and the heavy door leading into the cell block clanking shut with a heavy thud, Castiel is jumping down, nimble and scarily quiet.

In the time it takes for Dean’s eyes to adjust to the dark, Castiel has crawled into Dean’s bunk, cajoled Dean out of his top, and is in the process of tugging Dean’s pants down his legs, all the while trying to soothe Dean like he's a scared animal instead of a fully grown human being who is simply wondering if this is some kind of bizarre hazing ritual.

“Stop freaking out,” Castiel murmurs, brushing a cool hand over Dean’s clammy thigh, “it’s okay.”

It’s not like Dean is a blushing virgin; far from it – he’s been screwing around with both genders since he was fifteen – but this situation is so far removed from fucking a girl in the back of his Impala after a movie and pizza that it’s almost laughable.

“It’s okay baby,” Castiel whispers, pressing soft lips to Dean’s temple, gentle fingers ghosting up the length of his cock, “it’ll be good, I promise.”

Dean doesn’t doubt that; not from the way he can just about see the naked toned chest and firm stomach of his attractive – but intimidating as fuck – cellmate, but once again, it’s hardly the point.

As Castiel’s hand tightens into a fist around his dick, he realizes that he’s forgotten what the point is. He’s pretty sure that he doesn’t care.

“I’ve got you,” Castiel is still reassuring him, sweet words breathed against his skin and Dean is struggling to form a coherent thought, when Castiel pulls his own pants down his legs, letting go of Dean’s cock to get onto his hands and knees, naked ass presented and _all for Dean_.

Dean’s mouth is suddenly dry, his throat clicking audibly when he swallows. “Fucking Hell, Cas.” The nickname is new and unintentional and he briefly worries that it’s too personal or intimate to be giving his cellmate – the same cellmate that he’s about to be balls deep in – a nickname, but Castiel just sends Dean a lascivious wink over his shoulder.

“Cas…" he says, like he's tasting it out, "I like it. Not as much as I’d like you to stick your dick in me though, so come the fuck on.”

And really, there was never much of a chance of Dean refusing, so he spits into his palm, coating his cock and kneels behind Castiel, lining himself up.

And then he’s sinking inside Cas, inch by inch, so slowly that it’s almost killing him; sweat beading on his forehead from the exertion of holding back and he lets out a shaky moan when Cas reaches back to stroke Dean’s thigh in an oddly comforting gesture, urging him on, “I can take it, come on little twink, fuck me.”

 _Fuck,_ if that isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever heard… and he’s suddenly struck with an idea that could result in either some downright amazing sex, or getting his ass kicked.

He licks his lips, desperately trying to keep the tremor out of his voice when he asks, “you gonna beg me for it Cas?”

Castiel growls, the sound low and feral, and Dean panics momentarily, worrying that he’s pushed it too far, but then Cas is replying, his voice already sounding fucked out and Dean isn’t sure how he manages not to come there and then, “Dean… need you to fuck me...please.”

The high he gets from the power trip is wonderful; sugar sweet and it turns his brain syrupy with pleasure, making him completely blameless for the next words out of his mouth, “louder, Cas. You want me to fuck you, _everyone_ ’s gotta hear it.”

“Jesus Christ Dean,” Cas pants, part pained, part awe-struck, “Please fuck me, please, please, please –”

The words turn nonsensical; mangled beyond recognition in the back of Cas’s throat as Dean pushes all the way in to the hilt, skin slapping, breath hitching and fuck it feels so good that he almost forgets where they are; can imagine that Cas is just a hot dude he’s seduced at a bar and brought home to fuck.

“You like bending over for me, Cas?” Dean fists a hand in Cas’s hair, grip painful, but the man beneath him just lets out a feeble whimper as Dean grinds into him, other hand shaking as his palm presses down against the small of Cas’s back, “you like getting fucked by 18-year-olds?”

For a few seconds, there’s no reply; the only real sound is the one of creaking bedsprings as Dean fucks Cas, pounding into the lithe body beneath him, heat curling in his gut with every groan that falls from Cas’s lips and he releases his grip on Cas’s hair, moving his hands to Cas’s hips, fingertips pressing bruises into the skin above the bone, leverage needed to really fuck Cas like he wants to.

“Tell me Cas, wanna hear you.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Cas sucks in a desperate breath, a particularly brutal thrust threatening to overbalance them both; Dean burying himself hard, quick and deep inside Cas with each rough shove of his hips, and he’s completely certain that’s he’s never felt anything so damn _good_ in his entire life, “you’ve got a dirty mouth on that pretty face of yours…” he trails off, crying out when Dean’s cock drags over his prostate, filthy hot and perfect, “yes! Yes, I like… _love_ …getting fucked by you!”

They’re making enough noise now that the surrounding cells are starting to notice; catcalls and wolf-whistles becoming the soundtrack to the brutal fucking that Cas is taking so beautifully; taut muscles shifting under his flawless skin, light sheen of sweat clinging, strangled groans ripped from his throat.

“C’mon Cas,” Dean grates out the words between one thrust and the next, any and all hesitance abandoned in favor of enjoying this amazing opportunity for exactly what it is, “wanna hear you, wanna hear how much you’re enjoying this.”

“ _Jesus fuck_ ,” Cas’s voice is wrecked, guttural and he’s clearly struggling to scramble enough composure together to do as Dean is ordering, thought process impeded by each jarring thrust and twist of Dean’s hips, “feels so good Dean… you feel so fucking good…fuck! I’m close –“

Dean is helpless to stop the spark of heat that Cas’s words ignite, skittering along his veins, pooling at the base of his spine, until his rhythm is faltering, hips stuttering and he leans forward, draping himself over Cas’s back, mouthing at the base of Cas’s neck, teeth grazing over the flesh there, “you gonna come for me Cas? Need to feel you come on my cock.”

The noise Cas makes at the demand is barely human; animalistic, pained and it shoves Dean that little closer to his own orgasm, “fuck Cas…gonna come…”

But in the next moment, Castiel beats him to it, spilling onto the thin sheet below with a drawn out approximation of Dean’s name, whole body tensing, completely and utterly wrecked.

And then Dean’s coming inside that constricting heat, filling Cas up, biting down against Cas’s neck to muffle his shout, hips shoving frantically and with no finesse, still moving inside Cas as he fucks them both through the vestiges of their orgasms, shuddering gradually subsiding.

Dean’s arms and legs give out and he collapses onto Cas, pinning him to the sticky mattress beneath, bodies molded together in the small space of his bunk and he tells himself that he’ll move in a minute; he just needs to catch his breath and stave off the potential heart attack that judging by the frenetic pounding of his heart against his ribcage, is close to becoming a reality.

After a few more seconds, Cas shifts under him, clearly uncomfortable, so Dean pulls out and rolls awkwardly off him, narrowly avoiding falling out of the bed, only stopped by Cas’s arm sliding around his waist, pulling him in close, facing one another on their sides, “Can I ask you something?”

Cas makes a noise in the affirmative, eyes drooping closed.

“What are you actually in for any way?”

A small genuine smile curls the corners of Castiel’s mouth; mere inches from Dean’s, so that he can feel Cas’s breath ghosting over his lips when he replies, “I’m an Avtorityet in the Bratva."

At Dean’s total lack of response, he clarifies in an automatic way that suggests this is not the first time he’s had to explain. “A high-ranking member of the Russian Mafia.”

The fucking mafia.

Dean just fucked a dude from the Russian fucking Mafia and made him beg for it in the presence of the entire prison.

 _Holy fuck_ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Cas’s eyes flicker open, scanning over Dean’s face critically, “you’re freaking out again,” he says, cool indifference lacing his tone once more, as if he hasn’t just been fucked six ways from Sunday, and Dean only just refrains from snapping out a sarcastic reply, ‘cause damn right he’s freaking the fuck out.

“How are you fixed for work when you get out of here?”

That stops the panic train in its tracks, the question so downright random, that Dean just blurts out a baffled “huh?” without thinking.

“I might have a job for you,” Cas continues, blatantly ignoring the confusion that has to be written all over Dean’s face, which soon morphs into barely disguised horror when he realizes the full implication of Castiel’s last sentence.

“What? You on a fucking recruitment drive or something?” As soon as the words are out, he’s slapping a palm across his mouth instinctively, his sense of self-preservation shouting at him to shut the fuck up.

But Castiel just chuckles, the sound warm and would have possibly been comforting before Dean was made aware of Cas’s profession, “no, but I would like to help you out if I can.”

Dean frowns. Nobody has ever offered to help him his entire life, why would a fucking convict be the one who bucked the trend, “why?”

Castiel shrugs, expression completely open, and cryptic as fucking ever, replies, “Just because.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)


End file.
